PART VII - Start at the Bottom & Looking for Love in all the wrong places...

     At the time of my graduation, my mother worked as the receptionist at the corporate headquarters of a nation-wide Professional Staffing Company.  She alerted me to a job opening for a Financial Analyst for the company's telecom division.  I aced the interviews and got hired.  My back-office role was to correct the mistakes of the telecom salesmen, correct the mistakes of their regional office staffs (Arizona, Texas, Florida, Ohio, and New York), and find ways to get overdue Accounts Receivables that were never properly documented.

     Fresh out of college, I had two jobs and worked seven days per week.  Unlike civilized countries, America does not offer jobs with 9-to-5 working hours... unless you are a teacher, banker, or civil servant.  The myth of working nine-to-five disappeared in the 1950s.  In truth, American employers never wanted to permit it, until labor unions demanded it during the Industrial Revolution.  It finally became a standard in the 1920s.  During World War Two, companies eradicated it.  During the 1950s, it receded into memories, while prices and costs of living surged higher.  Also unlike other civilized nations, both parents of American households must work (usually full-time) to support their families and pay for all the things in America that are ridiculously overpriced.  Like most people, my job was 9-6, but folks arrived at 8:30 to get an early-start.  Too many beleaguered employees performed unpaid work "after hours", during their train commutes, and on weekends during their spare time.  Even worse, too many employees feel pressured to take shorter lunchtimes than they are entitled to.  Thankfully, my boss wanted her team members to refresh themselves with a full lunch-hour.  

     For me to commute to/from work, it was impossible to use public transportation.  I needed a car.  When our "Titanic car" died, I began borrowing my Dad’s “train station car”, a 1978 Grand Prix.  (At that time, he mainly drove a Chevy Blazer).  By then, it deteriorated to a rust-corroded heap (with broken air conditioning and ripped vinyl seats that I covered with a towel so the torn material wouldn't poke me).  However, it saved my life when a drunk driver slammed into me, as I left my weekend job at the catering hall.  The police expected to find me dead, because the woman's car crushed the driver's side of my car, so that my car's steering column could've impaled me.  They said an angel must watch over me!  

My parents shooed me away from legally pursuing the woman and told me to simply be thankful that I was alive.

     [Maybe I did have an angel guarding against car crashes.  In 11th grade, my mini-school bus was hit head-on by a careening car.  

My knees dented the padded metal ahead of me, and I was more shocked than the carousing kids in the back.  Again, my parents discouraged me from "legally getting involved".  (It's amazing how often they deterred me from collecting monetary damages, but later they both swindled me!)  

     Thirdly, a wheel on our Chevy Blazer (that was just repaired by a typical "scamming" auto repair shop) popped off while we were on the expressway!  

It caused my Dad to hit the divider—between us and oncoming traffic—and then swerve across all 3 lanes onto the right-side's grass.  Dad didn't sue them.  The auto repair shop merely replaced the tire, probably laughing that they weren't sued.  (Ironic how Dad didn't want money at that time; he took it from me later).  The fourth time was when my stubbornly insistent father made us leave a "woodland vacation" at 4am—"to beat the traffic"—and he fell asleep while driving and crashed our SUV into the highway's cement divider, ripping away the front fender.  

For months, my mother told my sister and I to forget it].

      My new job's income (and the catering cash) went towards payments for my first car and my first computer: a pre-owned Maxima GLE and a new "top-of-the-line" Gateway PC.  

Best car (made in Japan) and worst computer (made in USA).  Google was founded, one year earlier, but things like Facebook and Tumblr wouldn't be founded for several more years.  
     I bought the used car from the newly-hired pastor at my church.  Born in Nebraska, Rev. Eberhardt and his wife were childless, and I always hoped they would be good mentors.  Alas, the pastor looked at me as a way of getting things done for free at his church, and he never really advised my personal growth... or forewarned me of things to avoid.  
     I remember holding the key/remote in my hand, as I walked around the car.  My car.  Sporty.  Leather seats.  (We never owned leather seats in my home or my family's cars).  I loved zipping around in that Nissan, loved the heated seats, remote starter, nimble steering, quick acceleration, sunroof, how the radio antenna retracted, and its great Bose stereo!  Before I got it, the car was driven less than 8,000 miles per year, and it was garaged.  It looked similar to this...

     Next, I went through an entire "room of junk" at home—defending each movement against Mom—and bought carpeting, bookcases, a desk, lamps, and a pleather swivel chair... so I had a private place to use my computer.  (I offered to show my mother how to use the computer, but to no avail).  I also bought myself new bedroom furniture: something that said "male" and "warmth".
     I was decisive and speedy at Thomasville (they used solid wood dovetail-construction).  I went during their Memorial Day Sale (consumeristic America celebrates that holiday with shopping, instead of remembering its war heroes).  I was immensely faster than the saleswoman, who wanted to create a "scale diagram" on paper—using scale-size models of each piece—to be sure everything would fit.  She also needed me to repeat things often.  I simply walked through the store, looked at each piece (blending them together from varied collections) and—with my spatial skills and sense of dimension—chose everything at once.  And it all fit perfectly!  (I've always been able to do that).

     I got a queen-sized sleigh bed, 2 dressers, nightstand, supple leather armchair from their "Humphrey Bogart Collection", and a marble-topped Bombay chest.  Lots of curves in the wood.  

     I hired a guy from my church to build a closet in my bedroom (it never had one before that), and to paint the whole room… its first time in 20+ years.  (No, I never tried picking up a roadside Latin American day-worker).  I added a Persian rug (from someone's garage sale), some great lamps, a spray of ostrich feathers in a tall vase (colored with a Frank Lloyd Wright design), and lots of candles near the bed.  

     I created those two spaces to insulate myself from my negative parents and dismal home life, making an oasis for any male company, AND knowing that a future apartment would probably only have room for that much furniture.  As you can see, I was already planning ahead.  I got a circular chrome bar cart form Pottery Barn.  

I also bought an "all-in-one" gym machine for the vacant garage.

     For 2 years, I was diligent at my job.  Within a few months, I got all of my division’s accounts into pristine order.  I spent several months in the dusty file room, sorting through cartons of files... going back for 4 years.  I remember that the sequence of file numbers—which I needed to randomly search for—went in odd juxtaposition, such as: 009782 to 009287, or 008311 to 008331.  It made the mindless work bizarre.  Was I in a scene from the film "The Matrix"?

     As a reward, I was put in charge of two European accounts: a global French technology company named Alcatel, and a Swedish multinational tech conglomerate named Ericsson.  I quickly won acclaim from my team, yet it inadvertently made other employees jealous.  More importantly, I won the esteem of both of my accounts.  Their representatives in North America stated that they ONLY wanted to deal with me.  The woman at Alcatel said that I was unusually competent, as compared to other people she dealt with in the United States.  My company's Vice President of Sales for those accounts was so happy with the increased revenue—partly because of my good service—that he took me out to a swanky dinner.  Alas, he didn't offer me a job.  I said that I would enjoy working on his sales team, but he was content with his current staff.  Instead, I got additional duties to train his "field offices" across America... yet without any additional pay.

     In my cubicle at the corporate headquarters, I got the stress of trying to correct incoming mistakes from the sloppy regional sales offices, who made illegal and inappropriate promises to clients so they could collect their bonuses.  I didn’t get a bonus like they did, and I had to clean up after them.  I held conference calls to instruct staff “in the field” and correct their reoccurring slapdash problems.  What did it win me?  It won the scorn of idle middle-level management because… I was too good.  I made them look bad.
     My manager was fired, our team was downsized to three people, and we found ourselves working directly for a Vice President.  The whole setting could have been the stage for the movie “Office Space”, which premiered the year of my graduation.  The company's executives in "Mahogany Row" had Reserved Parking Spaces and came in the front door with their golf clubs (everyone else entered through the rear).  Unlike everyone else, they used an Executive Washroom (just like 1960s films "How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying" and "The Apartment").  The CEO/founder had his own private bathroom in his office (the superficial "trappings" of corporate hierarchy).  
     Once, I encountered the CEO, John Fanning, in the hallway, and I respectfully asked him if I could meet with him sometime to hear his story of founding the company.  (As you can tell, I'm confident in socializing with people above and below me).  He was pleasantly surprised, but he agreed.  My VP was impressed with me; she joined me for restaurant dinners—that I initiated—as well as elegant dinners at my home.  Seen below, that's me with some admiring coworkers.  

     As if two jobs weren’t enough, my pastor requested that I donate my efforts to become the editor of the church newsletter: The Voice (to a readership of 2,000 parishioners).  It was expected to be published every month.  As an advocate of volunteerism, I figured that it was an honor and social responsibility, and I hoped to meet people.  I wrote most of the articles, took most of the pictures, and did the layout editing.  With photos, I quickly expanded it to six double-sided pages.  Members of the congregation were thankful...

     I also donated my spare time in other ways.  As a voluntary member of the choir, I attended rehearsals on Wednesday nights.  

     I accepted an unpaid offer from my university's Director of Admissions to volunteer myself at high school College Fairs around Long Island.  Thus, I began representing my former university to recruit new enrollees.  (No, that didn't get me a discount from the college loans that I was paying back).  

     I was very good at my role... but not good enough to get a career with them.  The Admissions Team was grateful for my free work.  The Alumni Relations Team respected me but merely awaited my donations (no, they never had any contacts for me to find a better job; they seemingly only existed to GET things from alumni).  The regional Admissions woman seemed to be attracted to me, scheduling her visits when I was attending one of the college fairs, and she took me out for multiple dinners with her expense account.  I would've preferred Fate to send me a homosexual!  Yet, in all of those busy interactions, I never met a gay man.  
     *One rainy evening, after a college fair in Manhattan, I couldn't hail a taxi (typical in NYC), so I overpaid a Black Car to take me home.  Looking at me in his rearview mirror, the driver said, "You're a good-looking guy.  For an extra fee, I can connect you with some hookers, and you can have the car to yourselves for awhile."  I was astonished.  

When I said that I was gay, he stopped looking at me and remained silent.  I would've preferred that he tell me about a gay cousin or friend of his.  

     Simultaneously, I still did fundraising for my former high school: my brainwashed “alumni obligations”.  I donated my time for evening phone-a-thons and the annual black-tie “Bids for Kids”.  Each year, I—as a mere college graduate—assembled a table of 10 people for the event (you paid per seat, and then bought into the auctions), as well as served on its Planning Committee, and helped get donated items for the auctions.  It earned me a pat-on-the-back from former teachers and sneering scorn of wealthier donors who viewed me as an upstart.  

     Nonetheless, I felt productive, and it kept my mind off of a miserable family life, crestfallen expectations of my immature mother, and I kept hoping to “meet someone”!  I kept "getting out there" in the only ways that I knew.  

     But in those travels, I never learned that I was heading in the wrong directions (or that my ladder was up against the wrong wall).  Wish I had.

     I joined events to meet men who enjoyed similar interests.  I went to cultural events, bought theatre tickets, attended jazz performances, and took ballroom dance classes (from a heterosexual gentleman who was an Olympic Bronze medalist).  I dance very well, but I only encountered older women at the classes and the places that our group went to practice.

     I showed up for shopping events at Nordstrom (no, there weren't any gay employees), dinners at swank restaurants (where I began and ended alone at the martini bars), and many wine tastings.  

     The top-selling Nordstrom shoe salesperson, Paulette, loved me.  She was the only woman in the Men's Shoe Department; she sold over $1 million in sales per year.  She once told her supervisor, "That's the way our customer is supposed to look!  He looks like he belongs on a yacht."  Nick, a salesman in Men's Furnishings once said, "Even your smallest gestures are unique.  The way you carry yourself.  I can picture you alighting from a carriage in the 1700s." 

    Perhaps because I was dressed well at high school alumni events, I got invited to a few dinners at the Tam O'Shanter Country Club in Brookville.

     I hobnobbed with rich families who had predictable lifestyles.  Wealthy dads worked in "Finance" and stashed funds in secret accounts in the Cayman Islands...

...and their irresponsible children partied on the Turks & Caicos Islands.  (Both are British Overseas Territories).

Since I was from the working-class neighborhood of Levittown, and my income was not high, I was disqualified to make deeper connections with.  They deemed me as ineligible. 

    I bought admission tickets to big band dinner/dances at Carltun On The Green, inside Eisenhower Park.

  
Alas, there were only women—and their mothers—to dance with.  Once again, no networking occurred.  I only saw the type of men who "talked down" to waiters, and made the manager bring a flashlight to prove that their steak was still undercooked.  (My ostrich steak was perfect).
     I was taken to social events where the famous-but-elderly Lester Lanin and his 20-piece orchestra played.  I met him, and he handed me one of his trademark souvenir beanies.  He had an amazing memory, outstanding musical arrangements, and an unbelievable clientele--including Queen Elizabeth and Arab sheiks.  He and his orchestra starred in the 1989 movie, Chances Are.

     Despite going to so many places, I only met salivating females who prized me because I was a sensitive man who could cook and accelerated a spiffy car with a well-heeled shoe.

     For comparison, I had a Jamaican colleague with a nasty attitude, which stemmed from a lack of love.  She confided to me that she broke up with a guy.  The details?  The guy owned his own business, and his son really liked my colleague.  For months, he was patient, warm, and attentive to her.  He was willing to welcome her into his life.  But, during their date where she expected him to invite her to live with him, she felt afraid of change.  So she began complaining that he drove too fast while answering his cellphone.  She berated him and judged him as "reckless", asking if he broke the laws when his son was in the car?  She couldn't get her negative thoughts out of her head.  So, she abruptly called a taxi and took herself home… leaving the man to sulk through the rest of his extensively-planned evening.  Perhaps, she invented small reasons to be upset with him, because he was "winning over" her bitter emotions.  So, she threw away a perfect offer that had been customized and "handed to her on a silver platter".  I recall enviously wishing for a man to be as nice and attentive to me! 

     When downsizing at my job began, my position was the newest, so I was thanked for my exemplary work and kicked out.  First in, first out.  "Thanks for collecting our overdue money, now Goodbye".  
     Thankfully, I recently finished two books (below) and was in a mindset to "network" for a better job.  To build upon my existing reputation, I looked within the company's branches.

     Despite my layoff, my Vice President wanted to keep me around.  We met with Human Resources.  Thankfully, the HR Director remembered me fondly, saying, "In my 14 years doing interviews, you were the only person to give such a great answer to my trick question."
Her Question: "What are some of your weaknesses?"
My Answer (given in a James Bond candor): "I'm sorry ma'am, but thats a peculiar question.  Why would anyone ever answer it?  I suppose that I'm expected to take one of my lesser strengths and present it as a weakness… but that's just inauthentic.  My answer is that I work to improve my flaws—to the best of my ability.  And now I'll tell you what flaws I don't have."
     She was delighted to keep me in the company.  Alas, HR people—as I experienced thereafter—don't use urgency to fill jobs.  Months pass before they do anything.  (That's why companies lose so many candidates, but too many don't care).  She and my VP put me "temporarily" in the Data Processing Department, until they could find another spot for me... which was stalled over and over again.  I detested the job.  I don't mind repetition, but that job was mundane and tedious.  Even the lighting was weak!  I never worked with such unmotivated, cliquish drones!

     The mid-level managers who disliked me took advantage of their power to speak down to me about minutia, to make me feel inferior, every day.  The department's manager got a "power high" from intimidating her staff.  In one of our tête-à-têtes, I replied, "I'm sorry, I thought you wanted it done this way."  She answered, "If you had any questions, you should've asked."  My reply, "I didn't have any questions.  You explained it in a way that prompted me to do it like that.  I'll double-check in the future."  Her reply, "If I have to explain it twice, then perhaps you're not as smart as everyone says."  I was amazed by the coworkers who continued to work there—as if thankful for such a belittling job… like animals in a cage with the door open, who are afraid to leave and find something else, and prefer the safety of the cage against the unknown possibilities outside. 

     Not me!  I networked for my own transfer to the company’s most profitable division, in a separate building.  I got a job as an Assistant Account Manager.  My new Vice President boss, related to the Hammond candy empire, was happy with me.  Alas, a "warning light" went on in my head when my supervisor broke down crying one day and resigned due to the pressure.  A year later, they outsourced our work to California.  Mrs. Hammond took me out for lunch (at my choice) and after giving me the bad news, she told me pointedly, “Now you know what you don’t want to do for the rest of your life”.  I guess she was helping.  (The two commercials below, for Apple and Colorado Tech College, represent what I was being ushered out of).

     

     I wrote to a college friend, "I am repulsed at the thought of sitting in another cubicle, being compelled to force the content of my whole life into paper forms that don't add up to anything."  

     If that's your job (like the scene below from "The Incredibles"), then courageously find a new one.  You will develop a level of gumption.

     From of the way I gregariously treated a French coworker (everyone else made fun of his accent and manners), he referred me to another job.  I became Executive Assistant to the CEO of a NYC-based luxury children's clothing company.  The CEO was a Jewish Parisian, and he lived in Roslyn on Long Island.  Through my varied duties (sometimes at his office on Madison Avenue and mostly at his home-office), I got to know his family.  I learned about global travel and French customs/cooking.  Sadly, the company closed within two years.  Hating NYC's wretched business practices and the unhealthy work/life ratio in the USA, the CEO returned to France and is still a distant friend.     

     Maybe people like Andrew Carnegie or Robert Kiyosaki's friend Michael (in the book Rich Dad) were in "the right place at the right time" when they got their first jobs in blossoming companies.  Their appreciative bosses got them involved in many highly profitable ventures "ahead of the curve".  I would’ve liked the same things: mentors, doors opening for me, a meritocracy.  But my life varied greatly from what I desired.

     Immediately without a job—but with college loans and car payments due, I went to work full-time for two bosses from the catering hall who separated from their family to start their own restaurant.  (The catering hall was bequeathed to the owner's son, instead of them).  They bought a run-down restaurant in the town of Lake Success (it wasn't successful) and decorated it like a McMansion: lacking class but trying to look expensive. 

     The existing waitstaff was friendly to me.  Among others, I worked alongside a Catalan-speaking Spaniard from Valencia, 

a busty Macedonian, 

and a gentle-tempered Peruvian.  

     As immigrants, they hated America's needlessly-expensive lifestyle.  Therefore, they worked for six months in New York and spent the other six months in their native countries at houses owned by their families.  With the money they made, they "lived like kings" in those places.  It taught me that the cost of living elsewhere was more agreeable than in America.  Outside of America, everything cost less: food, vehicles, insurance, property, home maintenance, healthcare, and travel.  However, the money-hungry owners soon pushed them out, in favor of like-minded "Guido" waiters.

     The next set of characters arrived: the type of guys who pronounced "Anthony" as "Ant-eh-nee".  They said "mutzadell" instead of mozzarella.  Prosciutto became "pruh-zhoot", and ricotta became "ree-goat".  

     I worked with a temperamental "bi-curious" wine sommelier, a young marijuana-smoking catering manager, an obnoxious four-star chef, and an array of personalities never seen together in any film or book.  I brought a large following of waitstaff from the catering hall who thought, “If Ken is going, it must be good.”  I learned how to cook and distinguish the nuances of many wines.  Unfortunately, the slovenly-greedy owners couldn’t manage money, and after a year, couldn’t pay their employees or bills.  The business was bigger than their brains.  They spent lavishly on themselves.  Instead of renovating the kitchen (the heart of an eatery), they poured money into the ballroom (which attracted too many customers that the kitchen couldn't effectively serve).  In the end, the brothers absconded with cash deposits for Bridal showers, Christenings, and Sweet Sixteen parties and let the place get closed due to health violations.  I learned valuable LIFE LESSONS of what NOT to do.

     It also highlighted the detestable rudeness that obstinate/ignorant American customers shove upon workers in the Hospitality Industry:

Obnoxious woman: I want a bottle of this (points) wine.
Me: I'm very sorry ma'am, we don't have that at the moment.  May I suggest this bottle of Pinot Grigio?
Woman: Ok, we'll take it for the price of this one.  I'm not paying for a more expensive bottle because you don't have it.
Me: I'm sorry, we can't change the price…
Woman: (interrupts me) You have to, and you'll do it.  Every restaurant does.  I know that because my friend owns one.
Woman's friend: We come here all the time.  I know the owner.
     *(What I wanted to say was, "You don't know the owner.  And if you really knew "restaurants", you wouldn't behave and talk to a server that way."  Why would anyone want to enter an industry of serving people, if they were punished for doing so?  I'm always respectful/appreciative to staff and sometimes befriend staff).

Lady: I ordered a Stella draft beer, not Corona!
Me: Yes, miss.  That is Stella draft in a Corona-labeled glass.
Lady: I know what Corona tastes like, and this is definitely it.  Do you think I'm stupid?
Me: (Yes, you are.) Miss, we don't have Corona on draft.
Lady: You probably poured a bottle of it into this glass.
(I brought the same drink in a Stella-labeled glass).
Lady: Now that's Stella!  This is coming out of your tip, ya know.

I'mRichBitch: I want a table for four!
Me: I'm very sorry, we don't have any tables available at the moment.  It's a full house.  It will be a 30 minute wait.
I'mRichBitch: Excuse me?!  I own the store across the street!
Me: (so?!?!) I apologize, but it will be a 20-30 minute wait.

     If I could make a new law, I'd make it mandatory for every American to work in the retail / hospitality industry for at least one year.  It will help them be better human beings!


     I also tried to get closer to attractive men with whom I worked… the ones giving "mixed signals", light touches, a finger dragged along the inside of my palm, lingering stares, and homoerotic comments.  Since college, I hadn't met another openly gay man!  I dealt with "closeted" and "latent" men.  Young men came and went, because Food Service is a transient industry for college kids and people wanting quick money.  Homosexuality was finally becoming less taboo, so it was a little easier to breach the subject with certain guys.  

     I invited a waiter (who ambitiously also brokered Real Estate) to my house for dinner.  Wine spilled on his shirt, and I offered to clean it.  He assumed that I meant in the washing machine, so he stripped out of it—standing perfectly shirtless.  I commented on his muscles, and he invited me to feel his pecs and sixpack.  He gave demonstrations of weight-training.  We spent the rest of the time with him topless and flexing.

Eventually, I found it hard to hide the fact that I was... the same.  When I told him that I was gay and thought he was attractive, he said, “So if I offered to let you give me a blowjob, what would you say?”  Guess my answer.  To which he firmly replied, “Well, I’m not going to, because I’m not gay.”  When I made another offer, he avoided the topic.  I couldn't understand what went wrong.  Another night, he mislead me by saying that we were going to dance performance, but he really took me to a female strip show.  He paid for a woman to smack my face with her tits.  I was bored.

As he drove me home, I thought I was being clever when I said, "I witnessed your type of erotic fun, so now you should let me demonstrate mine."  He blatantly refused.  Soon after, he relocated to another state.

   I socialized with a cute Iranian (he preferred "Persian") waiter.

His name was Hashmat, but he preferred to Anglicize it to "Matt".  We decided to fly to Los Angeles to experience its festive Halloween celebrations.  That's us in our matching pirate costumes. 

The nightclub parties were fun.  People loved my ruffled outfit!  L.A. is a gay-friendly city, and young men at the parties flirted with me.  It seemed to make Hashmat jealous.  Instead of spending more time with me, he brought over a cluster of young women—all in identical costumes.  Buying all of us drinks, he kept me encircled with girls, and that repelled the gay men.  

Without me asking for it, one woman suddenly took me to a corner and gave me a blowjob.  I imagined it being Hashmat, so I could finish.  When I returned to Hashmat's side, he winked at me.  Then, he bought me a cigar and took me to another Halloween party.

     The next day, I wanted another type of fun, and he knew it.  Even though he paid the hotel's TV channel to watch porn movies, and I hinted at wanting to "fool around" that night...

... he spent that night with a prostitute whom he found on the street.  They used our room, with me waiting in the lobby until they were done.  I was downhearted.  He would rather illegally find a "streetwalker" and PAY FOR SEX than be with me.  Afterwards, he summoned me and suggested that I pay her for my own sex.  The naked woman lounged on his bed and waited.

     Hashmat liked to smoke hashish and weed; he offered it to me, hoping it would propel me to be with the woman.  I declined.  I couldn't believe that the Universe pushed an illegal prostitute and illegal drugs into my path, yet denied me basic same-sex fun.  I openly told Matt that I was gay, and that I found him attractive and hoped for some fun with him.  He told me that he needed to repress his urges, and he wasn't interested in experimenting, due to his conservative religion/family.  (Yet somehow drugs and prostitution were permissible).  How did a guy who wasn't true to himself get more sexual satisfaction than me?!  


     I invited another waiter (even the waitresses thought he was flirting with me) to accompany me to my college friend’s wedding in New Jersey and stay overnight at the hotel.  He agreed.  I figured it was a GREAT indication!  At the wedding reception, I let my eyes and hands linger on him—for all to see—as my quiet way of announcing to my college friends that I was gay.  As he and I drank more, we kept eye contact and smiles much longer than normal.  He talked to my friends about soccer and his other job at Hollister.  My female friends looked enviously at me.  We all figured that I would "score" with a cute "Down Low/Discreet" guy.  

     At the night's end, he gave me a long cute look, picked up my kicked-off shoes, and carried them towards the hotel room, with a glance over his shoulder.  Friends watched us with mouths agape.  One girl winked deviously at me.  I followed him to our room.

     Laying on his own bed, he drunkenly turned on the TV and bought access to the pornography channel that the hotel sold.

     Then, he took a shower.  He came out wearing a towel, and I showered next.  We laid on our separate beds, and with a homoerotic tone, I admitted to being horny.  He said the same.  Tipsily, I suggested to have a "stroking contest" and see who could ejaculate first.  He agreed!  I started on myself—with the intention of moving to his bed.  But (and you WON'T believe this), when I looked over at him, he was asleep!  Drunk ASLEEP!  No amount of encouragement or prodding aroused him!  Arghh!  I could only admire his flaccid groin and imagine.  In the morning, there was a breakfast, but he slept through it.  I put on a smile for my friends, but I would rather have been there when he woke up with his "morning wood".  I hurried back to the room, hoping to catch him in the shower, but he was already dressed/packed and ready to go.  Driving home, I chided him that he missed our stroking contest.  With annoyance, he said that I should’ve tried harder to wake him!  As if it was MY fault.  (No, he didn't agree to another one immediately).  Soon after, he quit working at the restaurant. 

     Another night, a cute busboy (I could't imagine him to NOT be gay) ...

... invited me to the famous nightspot, China Club, in the city.  

     As I did with most guys, I drove us into Manhattan and paid for the pricey tolls and parking.  As soon as we got to the dance floor, he approached a girl, lifted his shirt to show his abs and flirted.  I heard the girl reply, “I can’t talk now; I’m with someone” but she gave her number to him anyway.  He moved on and did it to a few more girls.

     He spent his time drinking and "cruising" the female scenery.  I wondered why he invited me?  He brought over a random girl who wanted to "make out" with me.  I tried to extricate myself from her.  Eventually, we left.  But he wasn't finished because he hadn't had an orgasm yet.  I offered to give him one in my car.  Instead of being with me, he sought a professional.  China Club was a few blocks away from NYC's unofficial Red Light District: Times Square / Forty Second Street.  Unlike the clean/organized Sex Worker districts in Amsterdam or Antwerp, NYC's was full of raunchy "street hookers" and sleazy Peep-Show Bars in crumbling buildings in the heart of midtown.  

     For decades, the uncaring city claimed that its oversized and overpaid police force couldn't stop it.  The wealthiest city in America claimed not to have the resources to revitalize its urban decay.  But when Disney showed enough money to the mayor, he suddenly eradicated the smut, so Disney could host musical productions of Beauty and the Beast and The Lion King.  Despite that, "ladies of the night" still worked in the area.  

That's how the busboy easily brought one to my car and expected me to drive around, while he and the prostitute frolicked in my back seat.  I said no.  He told me to drive home alone.  That was the last time I went out with him.

     In fact, I found myself wearily driving all over to "pursue" guys who never did anything sexual with me: 

I drove underwater and 53 miles to New Jersey,

...for a supposedly-sexual rendezvous.  But the guy "chickened out", so we bypassed his porno movies and watched soccer while  I helped him cook Chicken Parmesan.  Then, I encountered a traffic jam at night, during my long drive home.

     When motorists finally broke free of the traffic jam, they were tempted to go faster.  However, it was that time of month when police were forced to make their quotas, so driving at night required extra caution.  Otherwise, it would take longer to get home, and cost hundreds of dollars in fines, plus demerits on your driver's license.

     Using two maps (in an era before cellular phones were equipped with Google Maps), I drove 104 miles to the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania for a 3-day weekend.  

     I stayed at Porches, a picturesque Bed & Breakfast (built in 1830) alongside a canal in the cozy town of New Hope.

On the other side was the Delaware River.  (It and the State of Delaware are named for an English baron named De La Warr.  That noble family still exists; the 11th Earl De La Warr lives successfully in London).  

     Alas, the guy who invited me remained with his "new" girlfriend (who came into his life after he invited me).  He disregarded the effort I made to be there.  As consolation, I explored the artsy town, which supposedly attracts gay men.  Regardless of whichever bar or eatery I visited, I didn't meet any gay men, except the older couple who owned the B&B.  (The other guests were all straight couples).

     Another time, I travelled over bridges and 176 miles north to Rotterdam, New York (named after the city in the Netherlands).  

It was boring, and the timid guy tried to distract me by spending all of our time shopping at a typical, soulless "strip mall".

In winter, I followed a similar upstate route to the city of Albany (named for the British Duke of Albany).

That guy was "all talk" (during the planning) but "no action".  Instead, he took me for a tour of the grossly-expensive State Capital Building... indicative of NY's historic corruption.  It was lavishly over-budget while citizens lived in squalor.   

Despite being the state capital, the roads were poorly plowed.

     I paid bridge and highway tolls and drove 63 miles through bumper-to-bumper congestion to Mahwah, New Jersey.

*New Jersey is named for the Bailiwick of Jersey, a self-governed island that has been a Possession of the British Crown since 1290.  Ruled by the monarch, it has its own national identity and isn't part of the United Kingdom.

I made several treks to Suffolk County on outer Long Island (named for England's Suffolk County, but less attractive). 

Alternate routes that lack traffic jams are full of speed traps and unmarked police cars.

I ventured to various parts of Queens County and over bridges to Long Beach.

I suffered 2 hours/40 miles to cross the bridge to Staten Island (named for the Dutch parliament: Staten Generaal).  

     Journeying to another of NYC's boroughs, I crossed the Throgs Neck Bridge... 

...to visit a guy in Pelham Bay, in The Bronx. 

Temporarily unable to work, he was home with a cast on his leg... and looking for soothing fun.  But when I arrived, he made it clear that my traffic delays prompted him to find somebody else.  I left angrily.

     All of those attempts amounted to lots of mileage, gasoline, and burnt rubber (no, not those rubbers), and lonely drives back home.

     Unlike other people who let their jobs dictate their overworked lives, I prioritized and made myself available to be with guys.  Sadly, I continued to say "Yes" to Life, but Life pissed in my face.


     A weight-training waiter named Gerry often invited me to his place in Queens.  He still lived at home, in the basement.  He labelled his Italian parents as "fresh off the boat".  Their living room looked stereotypically like this, with plastic covers on the furniture.

     I told Gerry that I was gay, and he liked asking me about it.  Yet, it spooked him if I got too close.  For a few weeks, I waited on his sofa while he drank alcohol and built up the nerve.  He talked about sex, sometimes put on a porno movie, and asked me questions about "gay sex" and which boys I liked.  But he was afraid to get sexual with me...

...because his father randomly came downstairs for midnight snacks from his kitchen.  He admitted that if he was caught with a girl, it would not be a scandal.  After each night's hopeful sex talk, Gerry got "cold feet" and sent me home, saying, "Okay, Kenny, I guess you'd better go now".  

I liked him, so I was patient.  He used me to help himself adopt a dog, named Rusty, from the North Shore Animal League.

     I kept imagining his arms and legs working into me (that's him above), and that imagery maintained my patience during those unproductive nights in his basement.  Gerry invited me for a weekend in the City of Poughkeepsie...

... to "house sit" for his friend.  (That's my shiny car parked outside the home; I drove us the 106 miles to get there).

     We both deliberately wore very little clothing.  That night, he entered the living room in a short towel around his perfect body, which only covered him from bellybutton to just below his sack—it looked practically like this...

What a vision!  I did my best gentle (and then eager) efforts, but—dammit—he kept getting “cold feet”!  With his Catholic guilt-based upbringing, he continually felt “sinful” (albeit apologetic) with me because I was "a sin against God".  !!!  He claimed that gay intimacy was impossible because he hadn't previously gone to Confession with his priest.  I recommended Confession after the deed, but to no avail.  Thankfully, his mind didn't consider mutual masturbation as a homosexual act, so he didn't feel guilty.  Nonetheless, my mind was frustrated and baffled.  Soon, he enlisted in the Marines, and another "brave" US soldier cowered at the thought of being true to himself.


     Another young guy was also Catholic… and morosely academic.  But cute.  His chosen path to "being gay" was to return to his anti-gay Catholic religion for guidance.  He told me about his "steps", but it seemed that the more he got entangled in his religion, the longer he didn't "come out of the closet".  Instead of contacting Gay Hotlines or LGBT Counselors, he contacted his Dioceses' staff.  They got him "in touch" (pun intended, considering the Catholics' double-stance: being anti-gay while priests molest boys) with their Director of the Department of Youth, Marriage & Family Life.  Interestingly, the Pontifical Council for Justice & Peace officially "shows concern for victims of the violation of human rights".  Just not gay rights.  When he finally began having professional therapy, his therapist told him not to let others "hold the keys" to his well-being (look at the papal logo, below).

     Weeks later, a new flirty waiter winked at me.  He grabbed me by the waist often, and swatted my butt occasionally.  I grabbed his arms and poked his hard chest.  We both indicated that we enjoyed same-sex fun, but he was "seeing a girl".  He seemed spontaneous and adventurous (that's him below).

     He moved into a new apartment and invited me.  I drove there and knocked on the door, right on time.  He answered, with a cute girl under his arm, and told me that he needed “more time” before we could meet.  He gave a knowing look towards the girl, and said they were going to finish “hammering up some shelves”.  He asked me to take a walk around the neighborhood and come back in an hour.  !!!  (essentially saying "Give me one moment to have sex with this girl, and then I'll be with you next.")

Like an idiot, I did… only to find myself helping to cook dinner for all three of us.  Apparently, she was going to stay the night, and I was expected to come back another time.  She was nice: he was a jerk.

     It's nothing new in history that some guys are "straight" by day and give tastes of their gayness at night.  Nowadays there are online Tumblr images of "baited" straight/closeted guys... probably created by the offended gay guys that they "used".  Soon, there will be a gay version of the "Tiger Woods" fiasco!

     I found a vibrator in another guy’s bedroom (it was his non-verbal indication to me), but he needed to drink so heavily before getting intimate—which he could do sober to any girl—that by the time he was "ready", one of us was always too drunk/sleepy.  

     Another guy invited me to his apartment in Brooklyn, where he lived with a flamboyantly gay muscled guy—who greeted me in perfect-fitting boxerbrief Speedos while doing yoga ball exercises in their living room.  

     I cutely teased my coworker about the fun possibilities that existed!  I was proud of my boldness.  His response was to take me to a heterosexual strip club… as if to assert his sexuality.  He wasted our entire night, and he paid for me to get a lap dance.  Twice.  I was disappointed.    

     I didn't understand why the Law of Attraction wasn't working for me.  I never desired breasts in my face, but the Universe brought three situations of strippers into my path.  I never desired prostitutes, but they were brought into my path, too.  Instead, I desired gay sex, yet that was still problematic.  
     I would’ve tried for the roomie, but he was gone when we returned.  I wasn’t invited over again, nor did the roommate ever visit my Guido-ish restaurant.  That waiter soon stopped working there.

     The "pothead" catering manager suggestively invited me to his apartment, a few times, but his friends showed up unexpectedly each time (damnit) to play poker or have drinks from his large wine selection.  Once, after he smoked/relaxed enough, I was finally able to get his clothes off—showing his gymnast body.  But he passed out from too much "substance abuse", which I grew tired of smelling (and smelling like).  He literally slumped over next to me, leaving me "alone".  I left.  

     That summer, a Caucasian cutie named Kris spent a lot of time talking with me and "accidentally" brushing past me (front and back).  When we took lunchtime breaks outside behind the kitchen (we both worked double-shifts), he often took off his shirt and rolled up his pants over his shapely calves (that's him below).

     I gave compliments on his physique and his Taekwondo moves.  He made comments like "our smiles look good together", and that my high energy implied great stamina.  He told me about his sexual prowess with female customers.  

(Cellphones of that era couldn't take pictures, so I didn't have to see his vaginal conquests).  He left with different females, each night, and he "traded" waitresses with other jock waiters, cooks, and parking valets.  He was famous in their circle for sleeping with a waitress' mother.  A hostess complained that he arrived for sex with her... but already smelled like sex from someone else!   
     One night, Kris took me for drinks and said suggestively, “Sometimes I get bored with girls”.  His leg rubbed mine, under the bar.  A woman at the bar, who was watching us, mentioned to me, “You might get lucky tonight.”  However, Kris reminded me that he lived with his parents.  He nonchalantly told me that he needed to get a new mattress: his squeaked loudly.  I got the hint.  He invited me over the next day, after his parents went to work (we were both off), and asked me to bring breakfast.  When I got there, he had overslept—with a waitress from our restaurant!!!  (I guess if the mattress made noises and he was caught with a girl, it was okay).  

It was a typical double-standard.  He stood there, wearing only his boxers, trying to explain himself.  

It was terribly awkward.  The girl didn't make any effort to leave, and Kris was unsure what to do, so I left the breakfast with the girl and went home.  He made a second "scheduling error" like that with me, and it was the last.  

     A cute Mexican parking valet named Ricky ...

...invited me to a nightclub in the city (he hinted at a reward for me being the "designated driver"), but as we returned to my car in the nearby parking garage, he appeared with two prostitutes whom he summoned!  One was for each of us, and he intended that we should all have fun in my car!  (In his home-country, prostitution is legal).  Thankfully, two strolling policemen followed the short-skirted girls.  The prostitutes quickly left, and it deterred any action.

     Once, I encountered a restaurant guest who described himself as "open minded" for sex.  He seemed delighted to find a gay guy (me) in the area.  Then, he admitted a kinky fantasy of sharing a gay guy simultaneously with a "straight" buddy of his: a game of "get drunk, and then tag-team the gay guy"... like a "Girls Gone Wild" plaything for them.  

     Guys' treatment of me began to weigh heavily.  I took a step forward, and they took a step back.  They wanted it "mechanical", so it didn't mean anything.  (So they could keep saying that they weren't gay).  But then, in the right mood, they wanted me to scream how much I liked it.  Such cowards!  They took risks for football, hockey, surfing, drag-racing, or fights at bars, but were too scared of me.  

     As Diana Ross sang, "Life is tearful or its gay; full of heartache or full of play."  So, I chose to remember: "I'm gay and full of play!  Live for the future and let the past take care of itself."  

     The bi-curious sommelier, André, eventually warmed up to me.  He drove an Audi TT convertible (made in Germany)... 

...and admired my spiffy Lincoln LS, which was badly made in the USA (unfortunately, I tried their V8 engine).  

I admired his cute smile and facial scruff.

He invited me to his step-mother's home, where he acted more effeminately "himself".

But his "gay side" was still "in the dark" to everyone else.

     He was intrigued with my knowledge of wine… and my tongue and lips.  During our next mutual day off, he invited me to his basement apartment in Queens and began a water fight on the patio with the garden hose.  Shirts came off.  

I was intending for his pants, next.  But his cousin suddenly arrived and stayed for dinner—spoiling the fun.  
     Whereas the pothead needed weed to "get into the mood", that Catholic Latino needed to drink a lot.  Sadly, each night at work, André only acted interested in me at closing time.  During the rest of the day, he was distant—flirting with the hostesses, coat-check girls, and female customers... to maintain his "image".

     At closing time, if a female customer or employee flirted with him, he ditched me and left work with her instead.  

It was confusing and irritating.  I didn't mind if he was bisexual, but I was apparently only a faint interest—or perhaps merely a "back-up plan".  However, when he noticed Kris talking so much with me in the corners of the restaurant, he grew chilly towards me.... as if to punish me... instead of applying more effort to be with me.

     We all went to a Halloween Haunted House, after work.  Gerry drove me.  André drove a waitress in his car behind us.  Getting out of our cars, André approached me and said quietly/jealously, "I thought I saw your head go down on him in the car.  Were you having any fun?"  I replied, "Of course not, but I can't wait for you forever."  "Don't do this to me," he said in agonizing emotion.  I didn't understand his rationale, and I walked away to follow Gerry.  He failed to explain himself or rectify things.
     It got worse when an openly gay nephew of the owners came to visit from Texas—and flirted with me.  He was impressed with my car, so I took him with me during afternoon errands.  Since he liked my personality, I invited him to go out with me.  Perhaps out of jealousy, André finally put some moves on… drum roll… the Texan!  Not me.  

And the Texan ditched me on the night that we were supposed to go out—for André!!!  Once again, I was left out of the fun.  The next day, the Texan sincerely apologized to me, putting his hands on my shoulders and my waist, saying I probably would have been the better guy to spend time with.  I coolly shunned him—perhaps my mistake.  I was also upset that André had no moves for me, but had them saved up for air-headed girls... and a cute twink from Texas!  I was fed up with guys like them.

     There is a 1999 movie, "Trick", about a young gay man who met a gay dancer and spent the entire time trying to bring him somewhere so they can be intimate.  The audience feels empathetic for their frustrated attempts.  Can you imagine my sexual unhappiness—after so many YEARS of nothing?  It was as if I was cursed in a tower of loneliness. 

     (Sadly, “gay cruises” hadn’t been created yet).

     There was also the time that—on his last day—a high-school-aged Portuguese busboy named Rui held my hand longer than usual, while looking into my eyes, and trailed his finger inside my palm.  In broken English, he said that he would miss working with me because I was fun and good-looking.  Still holding hands, I replied similarly.  With a sexy smile, Rui mentioned that his parents weren't home; they were out for the night.  It convinced me that I would "get laid", and my imagination conjured this...

     I invited myself to his home.  We drove quickly, but we lost time because he wanted to take a shower.  He had me wait in his family's kitchen.  He returned with dark wet hair that looked sexy.  The smell of soap hung to his skin.  I was instantly ready!  However, he started by sharing some Portuguese “firewater” (moonshine) with me.

     We guzzled a couple of shots.  Unfortunately, a friend of his, named Fabio, showed up... and stayed.  (It was almost as if the Universe kept introducing interruptions for my interactions).  I expected a frolic, but it was no fun at all—especially when Rui's parents returned, an hour after Fabio arrived.  Rui didn't refuse their family-time conversations, nor did he sneak away with me.  His father looked suspiciously at me: I didn't resemble his son's usual friends, and I had trouble communicating due to our "language barrier".  Rui didn't attempt a second time with me.  You can't imagine how frustrated I was!

     Of final note was another evening with the pothead at a pub, where a total stranger entered and came up directly alongside us.  He suddenly began to talk to the bartender in derogatory ways about gays.  He complained that gays were disgusting.  He looked at my coworker and I—even though we were acting “straight”.  He oddly looked me in the eyes.  I looked right back, finally fed up with his banter that was ruining yet another stale “male/male” interaction.  He said to me, “You’ve got fire.  I like that.  But it’s never gonna happen!”  He smiled and then got up and walked out.  How "pointedly-done" was that?  It was like I was the main character of "The Truman Show" and an “extra” character was sent to deliver a veiled message.

     {Years later, I chatted with a 26-year-old Latino gay friend, Christopher, who bemoaned his lack of love/sex.  He sought my advice.  As I learned his history, I saw no reason for him to complain.  Despite being cute, he was a homebody who preferred to watch TV and read.  He lived on the Upper West Side, so the subway could easily take him to Chelsea or Hell's Kitchen (gay districts), but he was admittedly lazy.  When he did go out, he wanted to be "the pursued".  In addition, when he did go out, he clung to his other gay friends or "fag hag" friends—oblivious to how "closed" it made him against guys who might like him.  Christopher also had "requirements" for guys: height, look, attitude (not too swishy), language, penis size, and the sex positions that they could use with him.  
     Christopher grew up in a suburb with an affluent family who was supportive of him being gay.  As a teen, he wanted to "fit in" so he dressed "thuggish" and was "closeted" in high school (which, considering his lisp and hand mannerisms, probably didn't hide anything).  Nonetheless, muscular jocks made efforts to "imply that they wanted discreet sexual action"—which he was happy with.  I was envious.  He had sex with his high school "crush" (who also had a girlfriend for 3 years) because that guy passed him a note, asking "Do you like guys or girls?" and made additional attempts to get Christopher's attention.  Finally, at Christopher's home, the guy suggested watching porn, then asked, "Would you ever fool around with any of your friends?" and not getting a definite answer, eventually just whipped out his penis.  Lovely things ensued… for a couple of years!  (How many other gay guys would've loved their straight-boy crushes to want to fool around with them—and make the first moves?!)  

     Christopher enjoyed many after-school afternoons and midnights with him.  And with other bi-curious guys, too... because when he finally "came out", he was one of the few gay guys at his school.  Christopher lived in a big house and was able to sneak playmates in at night, without his parents knowing—even on Christmas and New Years Eve!  Christopher was always "the pursued", just as he liked it, even turning away some high school guys because they didn't meet his "requirements".  
     I tried to figure out what he was unhappy about.  Was he sad because the guys only wanted sex and no "quality time"?  Nope, his f-ck buddies took him to the movies, clubs, and dinners.  He was rarely lonely and even got to go to bed afterwards on his own pillow, while the boys had to go back to their homes.  Was Christopher sad because he was bullied at school?  No, those jocks protected him, and he had lots of male and female friends.  Was he sad because he never had a boyfriend?  Christopher showed me photos of his three ex-boyfriends: all Latin "model quality".  One of his ex's had rich parents who would've bought them both an apartment to share, but Christopher declined.  So, he was sad about a lack of love since he moved to NYC?  No.  Christopher used Adam4Adam, Grindr, and Jack'd on his iPhone to keep "regular sex buddies" and "friends with benefits" available within a quick walking radius—from both his city apartment and his upstate family home.  So, why was he sad?  He was upset because he wanted a "regular thing" with just one guy.  I suggested that he vary from his "homebody" ways because he couldn't expect a boy to be delivered to his door: he had to "get out there".  (Silly me).   
     The very next day, Christopher told me how fortunate he was!  That night, he invited a gay friend, who lived on the other side of the city, to his place for dinner.  The friend suggested that Christopher meet up with a "f*ck-buddy" of his… who happened to live only 2 blocks away from Christopher!  How convenient.  (And how nice to "share").  Afterwards, Christopher called the young man, who came over—was his perfect "type", and met all his "requirements".  How convenient again.  They had an immensely pleasurable time; he did everything that Christopher liked, in the order that Christopher liked.  The new playmate's name was Angel, so Christopher considered his prayers answered!  
     Yet, he still complained, because the guy only wanted sex and no "quality time".  I felt like calling Christopher a spoiled brat, but instead I offered more advice on how to meet people—outside of gay bars and phone apps.  He thanked me.  A week later, Christopher blithely told me that he hadn't yet taken my advice, but he already met a guy online and enjoyed two romantic dates with him.  As luck would have it, the guy worked in the building next to Christopher's job!  How lucky!  I was really happy for him and pointed out that all his demands from Life were answered immediately and without inconvenience to him.  True, he admitted... but he didn't like the guy's nipples, (!!!) and the guy wasn't sexually aggressive as Christopher preferred.  Despite the guy's posh apartment and wardrobe, he lived in a "not so good neighborhood", so Christopher didn't want to take the subway there alone.  Christopher got mad at the guy for not waiting outside his job at 5pm until Christopher could leave work at 6:30pm to take the subway together to the boy's apartment.  (Oh my God, what a spoiled brat!  Why did the Universe continue babying him?  I wish it had shared its helpfulness with me.)
     I told Christopher "not to put all his eggs in one basket" and where else to look.  (Naturally) The next week, he insouciantly told me that he met a hunk online on Jack'd.  He giddily showed me pictures on his iPhone of the guy's huge penis.  They had amazing pounding sex.  The guy's muscular physique flipped Christopher around and lifted him at all the right angles.  But, after awhile, Christopher complained to me that he didn't like the way the guy held him off the mattress, and how his face looked during orgasm.  (!!!)  Christopher was upset at the guy for not returning his calls fast enough.  People might call that "nit-picking, unappreciative behavior".  I wondered how Christopher kept getting laid, despite his discriminating negative energy?  Could I get some of his leftovers?  Then, he told me how he'd met a new "perfect" guy… but Christopher was going to "play hard to get" toward the guy.  That seemed so unthankful!  At that point, I helped him count his blessings, and gave him a taste of my past.  Compared to my life, Christopher quickly agreed that he had nothing to complain about.  Since he broke the rules (below), I wondered why he succeeded at getting whatever he wanted?

     I found myself surrounded by people who complained about their lives—despite how often Life hand-delivered their perfect jobs, homes, friends, lovers… and they unappreciatively discarded each of them.  I would've gladly savored that kind of service from Life!
     Why did I have to deal with so many "closeted" and "confusing" guys?  Was something repelling good ones away and foiling my love energy?  Since puberty, I noticed that plenty of people around me were getting plenty of sexual luck.  I had the desire and ability, but instead of being involved, I was watching from the outside… still!  I vowed at that point to shake off whatever was “slowing me down” and start living my life!